Who Says You Can't Go Home
by TheBreakfastGenie
Summary: Written in 2013 immediately after Ziva's departure. Several years later, Ziva returns to visit Gibbs and tell him what she's been up to. An alternate ending for her, if you will, and my tribute to Ziva David.
AN: This is the final NCIS fanfic I will post. I actually wrote it in 2013 immediately after Ziva left the show, but I only posted it on tumblr because I felt it was too short for . Now I no longer care as I'm posting it here as my tribute to Ziva and possible an alternate ending for her. Here's to a character who deserved better.

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Who says you can't go home?

Over the last four years, she's developed a taste for classic rock. Maybe it has to do with people in her past. Maybe it doesn't. But Bon Jovi still makes her think.

Washington DC, 2017

Whoever was knocking on his door was damn lucky Leroy Jethro Gibbs was upstairs feeding his goldfish, because if he had actually managed to hear the incessant noise from the basement (which was doubtful), he would have let the fool figure out for himself that the door was already open.

"It's still unlocked," Gibbs said testily as he wrenched open the door.

"I thought it would be," said the woman on his doorstep, "but I wanted to give you a chance to say no."

Anyone else might have gone white in the face, or wide-eyed, or slack-jawed, or shown some sign of surprise. But Leroy Jethro Gibbs just offered half a smile, like he had somehow been expecting this.

"Hey, Ziver."

He offered her a drink, but she said no. He insisted she take something–she was cold and wet from the rain–so she finally agreed to hot chocolate. He didn't take her to the basement, instead he invited her to sit on the sofa.

Gibbs studied her; Ziva. She'd still been vulnerable then. He could hear the tremble in her voice and see the child in her eyes. But there was no insecurity in the woman who sat beside him now. She looked older, and it wasn't the four years on her face or the new, short haircut. The little girl inside of her had finally had a chance to grow up.

He waited for her to speak, but she stared silently for so long into her mug that he was forced to break the silence himself.

"Ziva," he was gentle, so uncharacteristically gentle when he spoke. "You've never needed me to let you in. You know that."

She met his eyes, but only for a moment. "I did not think you would not take me back."

Gibbs smiled internally. She still didn't use contractions. Some things never changed.

"Then why did you come?"

Ziva's brown eyes met his gaze once again, and this time, finally, it held.

"Because I finally found myself," she explained softly. "And when I did, I realized I missed my family."

"You wanna tell me about it"

"No, Gibbs, I–"

"It wasn't a question, Ziva."

"Gibbs, I do not even know where to start."

He gave her an encouraging smile. "You could start with the hair."

Ziva made a noise that started as a laugh, but came out strangled.

"My hair does not matter to you, Gibbs."

"It matters to you."

She could not find it in her to speak.

"Ziver," he prompted. "You cut your hair."

"Donated." She smiled at the memory of a photograph she had received by email, a little girl wearing her hair. "Locks of Love. It was my third time. I am… growing it out again. It should be long enough in a few months."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"I-I went to college. I traveled the world without a gun in my hand. I… I dated men who had never heard of Mossad, who never killed anyone except in a video game. And I…. dated women. I sold a painting. I performed in a community theatre production of Fiddler on the Roof." Ziva paused.

"Since you let me in… Let me repay you sometime this winter."

Gibbs glanced reflexively to her left hand, but found her fourth finger bare.

Ziva handed him a photograph that, though recent, was well worn.

"Her name is Imtenan. She is a Palestinian war orphan, and in three months she will legally be my daughter."

Gibbs smiled in full for the first time since he'd seen her on his front porch.

"Congratulations, Ziva."


End file.
